During my solitary leisure time, I enjoy walking through the park. People stroll in small groups, appreciating the birdsong and flowers along the way, their laughter lingering in my ears. My slow steps come to a pause as I watch their figures gradually fade into the distance.
It feels as if I was born to be lonely, standing out as plain and ordinary in this bustling world, disconnected from those around me. I often create sorrow in my life, thinking of friends who drift away with time, mourning lost loved ones, and feeling the pain of farewells. After moments of excitement, only endless depression and loneliness remain, holding myself tight like a child in countless dark nights. Harsh voices echo, criticism and lack of understanding leave me alone, wandering aimlessly through busy streets and losing many friends along the way. On cold winter nights, I draw a blank sheet, sit on a single sofa, open a tasteless bottle of wine, and make a call that goes unanswered. My gloomy life feels like a black-and-white movie without an ending, surrounded by loneliness, day after day, as time slowly flows with the ancient clock.
Since then, I no longer go to that lively park, nor do I watch the small groups of people. I fled the noise and chaos, letting my steps rest in the bookshop filled with the fragrance of books. My fingers browse the myriad of books, gently flipping through the pages; this has become my resting place and a sanctuary for my soul when helpless. The bookshop feels like my stage; holding a book and sipping tea, I become completely absorbed. I forget the loneliness and sorrow, stepping into a realm of joy, experiencing stories and songs. During the low points of life, I draw strength from the pages of books. Dear self, do not be afraid; through the torrents of hardship, we will ultimately grow.
